I met a boy
with stormlight in his eyes
and gentleness hidden
underneath his ruined edges.
The kind of boy
you do not notice all at once—
he arrives slowly,
like winter sunlight
through cracked blinds,
until suddenly
you realize he has been warming you
for months.
And God,
I love him quietly.
Not in loud declarations,
not in movie scenes,
but in the way I memorize
the shape of his laugh
to replay when I cannot sleep.
In the way my anger softens
whenever he says my name
like it means something sacred.
He loves me too.
I know it.
Love lives in the spaces
between our almosts.
Almost touching hands.
Almost confessions.
Almost becoming something
real enough to ruin us.
Because there is another heartbeat
standing between ours.
My friend.
She says his name
like she owns the right to ache for him,
and maybe she does.
Maybe grief makes people territorial.
Maybe loneliness teaches them
to clutch things
that were never truly theirs.
And I hate myself
for resenting her sadness.
Because if I chose him,
I would lose her.
If I chose her,
I would lose myself.
So I stand in the middle
like a bridge collapsing from both ends.
People think betrayal
is sharp and obvious—
a knife,
a slammed door,
a cruel sentence.
But betrayal can look gentle too.
It can look like
smiling while your chest caves in.
Like pretending you do not love him
when every atom inside you
leans toward him naturally,
the way flowers ruin themselves
for sunlight.
Sometimes he looks at me
with that unbearable softness,
and I can feel the future
begging to happen.
But neither of us moves.
Because love is not always enough.
Because timing is a cruel god.
Because loyalty and longing
share the same bloodstream
and both are killing me slowly.
So I keep him
like a secret tucked beneath my ribs.
Not mine.
Never hers.
Just a tragedy
we carry politely
so nobody else has to feel it.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 12:15 AM UTC
I met a boy
with stormlight in his eyes
and gentleness hidden
underneath his ruined edges.
The kind of boy
you do not notice all at once—
he arrives slowly,
like winter sunlight
through cracked blinds,
until suddenly
you realize he has been warming you
for months.
And God,
I love him quietly.
Not in loud declarations,
not in movie scenes,
but in the way I memorize
the shape of his laugh
to replay when I cannot sleep.
In the way my anger softens
whenever he says my name
like it means something sacred.
He loves me too.
I know it.
Love lives in the spaces
between our almosts.
Almost touching hands.
Almost confessions.
Almost becoming something
real enough to ruin us.
Because there is another heartbeat
standing between ours.
My friend.
She says his name
like she owns the right to ache for him,
and maybe she does.
Maybe grief makes people territorial.
Maybe loneliness teaches them
to clutch things
that were never truly theirs.
And I hate myself
for resenting her sadness.
Because if I chose him,
I would lose her.
If I chose her,
I would lose myself.
So I stand in the middle
like a bridge collapsing from both ends.
People think betrayal
is sharp and obvious—
a knife,
a slammed door,
a cruel sentence.
But betrayal can look gentle too.
It can look like
smiling while your chest caves in.
Like pretending you do not love him
when every atom inside you
leans toward him naturally,
the way flowers ruin themselves
for sunlight.
Sometimes he looks at me
with that unbearable softness,
and I can feel the future
begging to happen.
But neither of us moves.
Because love is not always enough.
Because timing is a cruel god.
Because loyalty and longing
share the same bloodstream
and both are killing me slowly.
So I keep him
like a secret tucked beneath my ribs.
Not mine.
Never hers.
Just a tragedy
we carry politely
so nobody else has to feel it.
